


Take Two

by 221Beautiful



Category: Patrick Melrose (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Even if it kills him, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, John is going to help him, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Patrick is in a bad way, rape/non-con (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-05-23 11:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14933381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Beautiful/pseuds/221Beautiful
Summary: John Watson's life is changed forever when his best friend and almost lover throws himself from the roof of St. Bart's. But when a man who looks almost identical to the late and great Sherlock Holmes is wheeled into the hospital, John feels the universe has given him a second chance.





	1. Life After Holmes

John Watson's world had stopped turning when his best friend ripped himself from reality. He knew the pressure of the whole of London turning on him was probably a bit of a blow, but Sherlock Holmes have never really seemed to care before. Publicity, he had let on, was a curse and a person's image in the public eye should be as inconspicuous as possible in order to get things done. But he supposed that's where it had finally struck him. If the public didn't believe him, even the police who still valued his opinion weren't allowed to either. 

And as much as John knew it killed the man, without the police cooperation, he really couldn't do all the work he wanted.

So John supposed he understood. It hadn't made sense for Sherlock to lie to him at the end, the man was an idiot for thinking John would ever believe he had fabricated Moriarty's existence, and John was sure the great Sherlock Holmes was stronger than to commit suicide. 

Whatever the reason that pushed him off the ledge that day, John had sworn he would never forgive him. Then spent a great deal of time being angry with himself for even thinking that way. Then planning out detailed lists of everything he would have done and said if Sherlock miraculously strode back into his life, playing the violin or shooting holes in the wall.

He honestly found himself missing the gunshots and exploding kitchen experiments.

Which is what lead to his dilema about going back to the flat at all. 

After a nice holiday away, which the hospital was very nice to grant him after the tragic events, and a long bout of self reflection that would have made a monk proud, John decided to continue his residency at 221b. He told himself it was more for Mrs. Hudson's sake than his own and had to struggle with himself over the fact that being able to sleep in Sherlock's bed had NOT swayed him to stay. He hadn't even entertained the thought of wrapping Sherlock's coat around a pillow and laying beside it in bed. Nor had he taken to wearing the man's scarf around and bringing it up around his face to inhale the scent.

He did, however, realize none of these things were actually helping him cope. If anything, he seemed to be having a harder time than before. So he decided therapy might be something he could get back into.

The first thing his therapist recommended was a new hobby.

"The blogging was good. It helped you out a lot. But seeing as the idea of it seems to be attached to memories of Mr. Holmes, finding a new hobby wouldn't be a bad idea either." She shifted in her seat and looked down at the notes in her lap as John fidgeted with the scarf around his neck. It was warm but he had already displayed reluctance to taking it off when she had asked if he was too warm. "You could continue to use the blog for your own personal life, if you want, or I could help you find a new hobby."

As it turns out, finding a new activity to entertain yourself as a distraction from the loss of your best friend is a lot harder than John really had wanted it to be. He most certainly wasn't going to take up stamp collecting or scrapbooking and every other suggestion seemed to be exactly as mundane and boring as the aforementioned.

John had realized while shuffling awkwardly down the aisles of a local hobby store, as per her recommendation, that excitement was one of the things his life was severely lacking in when Sherlock had gone. He mulled over the thought while staring into the void just past the assortment of blue paints. Perhaps if he could fill his empty days and nights with something more engaging, it might bodily wrench him from the deep trenches of depression currently encompassing his being.

His solution came to him in the form of a colleague leaving from St. Bart's. One of the doctors he worked with, not closingly enough to really even remember the man's name, was transferring hospitals and opening up a position in the A&E. John knew it would probably get filled quickly and it didn't honestly take him much thought to consider the change it would make in his life. Late nights being busy with patients, the rush of actual emergencies instead of the dullness of giving check ups and flu shots. This seemed to be a godsend and John jumped at the chance the second the other doctor had signed his departure papers.

It was probably not the healthiest decision in hindsight, being more on the side of extreme denial as opposed to real acceptance, but it kept him busy and for that he was exceptionally grateful.

What he had never expected, in a million years, was to see a patient brought in on gurney absolutely fleeing the earth from a heroin overdose. Now don't get him wrong, drug overdoses weren't exactly an uncommon thing in the heart of London, but this particular patient made him almost drop his clipboard.

His heart hammered so loudly in chest, he couldn't even hear the nurse's debriefing of the man's symptoms. The man was obviously in a bad way and John could tell by the paleness of his skin, he had been for quite awhile, but John's eye couldn't leave his face.

If John hadn't seen Sherlock Holmes die with his own eyes, he would have bet selling every organ in his body to the black market that this was him, dying again. It seemed as though the veil of the mortal world was pulled back and John could catch a glimpse into the afterlife. The same slender face, dark hair, high cheekbones, John's entire being screamed out to thrust himself forward but he was simultaneously frozen in place.

It wasn't until the nurse yelled a quick "DR. WATSON." beside his head that he snapped back to reality and enabled him to take another look. Upon closer inspection he began to notice subtle differences between this man and the detective who had commandeered his life. He mentally kicked himself at how quick he had jumped to the insane conclusion and made an internal note to attempt to stop chasing ghosts.

But nonetheless, something about this Sherlock look-a-like made him feel something stir deep inside his chest. A determination rushed forward and John was overcome with the overwhelming feeling to protect this man at all costs. As he prepared himself to treat the spectre made solid, he realized he had a distinct impression on what exactly was happening.

The universe was giving him a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've not seen a single person out here doing anything with Patrick/John and honestly I think it could be so cool??? First chapter is a little short and mostly contains world building, but the next ones should be longer!


	2. Revival of a Liar

It turns out the man's name is Patrick Melrose, according to his ID. 

He was staying in a hotel room a few blocks from the hospital when the couple in the room beside his complained about a lot of noise and the staff had gone in the check on him. They had not expected to find the room a mess, the sink in the kitchen flooding over, and the man a nice shade of blue in the bathtub, fully clothed and submerged in freezing water. 

John had honestly been surprised he had survived the trip to the hospital with how far gone he had been. But the doctor had reached into the maw of death and pulled the man's soul back out. Now he lay in bed, resting, while John compulsively checked his monitors and looked over his own notes from the work they had done. 

He had been thoroughly saturated in drugs upon his arrival, and with the heroin they had also found cocaine, quaaludes, and even traces of ecstasy in his bloodstream. The cocktail of drugs had certainly put him on a wild ride, though John was fairly sure he hadn't meant for it to end in a hospital room.

Watching him sleep, which John promised himself was less creepy since he was, in fact, the man's current doctor, gave him a much better layout of the man's face. The similarities between Mr. Melrose and Sherlock were striking, but without the adrenaline coursing through him, he did look much different. He was exceptionally handsome to say the least, but his frequent drug use was thinning him out. John couldn't help but think he'd be more attractive if he gained a couple pounds.

John's mind was running a mile a minute, even in the quiet hours of the early morning, trying to decide what he should do. He was thankful that this was the most exciting case they have had that night and had differed any other patients to the other doctor on duty, explaining that this man needed more personal attention. Mr. Patrick Melrose was obviously going to jail. He was sure they would search his hotel room in a form of drugs bust and the doctor was absolutely sure they'd find more. The man obviously needed help and throwing him in a jail cell the moment he woke from his self induced coma wasn't going to do him any good.

The slight pick up on his EKG monitor distracted John and he realised the man was waking up. After a second of adjusting his hair and labcoat, which he immediately questioned why he even did so, he stood at the head of Patrick's bed with a soft smile that he hoped was personable. 

The man's eyes opened slowly and he took a long look around the room before settling his gaze on John and attempting to blink the haze from his eyes, ".... The fuck am I...?"

John assumed the question was "where" and furrowed his brows in response, "You don't need to worry, Mr. Melrose, we've taken good care of you here. Brought you back from the brink of death, honestly."

Patrick squinted at John with an expression similar to that of a man seeing the sun for the first time, unattractive and generally confused. His face lit up a bit with realization and John's apprehension slipped from his shoulders, only to be replaced by his own brand of confusion when Patrick motioned toward his coat draped over the back of the chair, "Right, of course, please could you, ah, pass me my wallet?"

John did as he was told fiddling in the pockets to find a phone that was probably too waterlogged to even check the time on, and finally coming back with a soggy wallet full of money, tucked back into the coat after the nurses had gleaned his name from its contents.

He passed the ruined leather to Patrick, who's face twisted a bit at the feel, but he flipped through the bills, pulling a couple large ones out and holding them out to John, almost ripping them in his hasty motions, "I believe this should cover it."

John's brows forced themselves together and his mind reeled in an attempt to figure out what he was doing, "Uhh.."

Patrick sniffed a bit and rolled his eyes, digging back into the wallet for a couple more pounds, "Right, right. This place looks clean enough, I'm sure you were expecting more." He thrusts the new amount toward the doctor and blinked rapidly, "Is this enough?"

For a brief moment, John had thought he may have fallen asleep at some point and was dreaming, but after a short glance around the room, he realized he was fully alert and awake, "You're, uuhhh... you're in hospital, mate. You were brought into the A&E a few hours ago."

The man looked at John as though he had been speaking an ancient language lost to the ages before a full wave of awareness washed over his face and he pulled the money back to stuff into its previous receptacle. He focused on trying to mash the paper back in without destroying it as he spoke, "An official hospital. Of course." He gave a long and loud sigh that, had John not just spend a good two hours keeping the man among the living, would have sounded annoyed, "I'm used to being treated a bit less... legally."

So this wasn't the first time. This man had drifted to the edge of reality and been pulled back before, probably many times. John knew there was no way he could save him when the questions of how the drugs ended up in his system popped up and he attempted to ignore the small twinge of disappointment that bloomed in his chest. It would come out that this man abused these substances recreationally and, apparently, frequently and he would be whisked off to prison where he'd either die from withdrawal or live the rest of his life between the concrete walls.

The nurses were alerted to the patient's rejoining with the waking world and swooped in to collect more information from him and check his stats, John stood off the to the side and let them do their work while he pretended to be busy checking Patrick's previous medical forms.

After checking his temperature and blood pressure, one of his nurses, John is pretty sure her name is Janice, he heard them strike up a conversation and the direction it took made him do an honest to God double take. 

"What HAPPENED to you, Mr. Melrose?" She exclaimed as if she didn't already know.

Patrick gave a loud sigh, sounding as dramatic as it was exhausted, "Well you see... The Melrose family is quite wealthy. A few days ago, I was approached by a group who threatened me bodily for my money, told me they knew I was "rolling in it"." The air quotes were exceptionally unnecessary, "I, of course, told them they wouldn't get a thing from me and they weren't going to have that."

His story continued to detail how he attempted to fight them off, but had succumbed to their advances after quite a valiant struggle. John almost laughed when he came to the part where they had apparently forced drugs into his system in an attempt to make him compliant. The doctor tried to exchange disbelieving glances with the other nurses but was thoroughly surprises to find every single one of them absolutely wrapped up in his story. 

They believed him. They seriously were hearing what had to be the least truthful story John had ever heard, and they were eating up every detail. And just like that, it was taken as a fact that the drugs were not his fault. They promised to do everything they could to help, a couple even shelling out their personal phone numbers for him, before leaving to contact the police. 

The doctor watched them leave and shook his head slowly once the door was closed back. He turned to look at Patrick who returned his gaze immediately, "... are you serious?" He spoke quietly, almost as if a loud outburst would bring them back with their minds changed.

Patrick gave him the most noncommittal shrug he had ever seen, "Did that not sit right with you, doctor? Are you going to tell them I'm wrong?"

The question almost came across as a threat but John decided the universe was just really having a go at him with this and he sighed softly, "I obviously don't want you going to jail. Which I assume you would."

The man gave him a sly smile and shook his head, "Oh, you have no idea, doctor." He laughed a bit at that but furrowed his brows, looking up at John with genuine curiosity, "Shouldn't you want me to be put away? You obviously know I was lying through my teeth, what makes you want to stick to my story."

John glanced over the paperwork one more time before looking back up to his patient, "You wouldn't survive prison." He spoke a little more cheekily than was probably professional but Patrick smirked back at him and he considered it worth it.

"I suppose proper introductions are in order." John stepped forward and held out his hand for the other man to shake, "I'm Dr. John Watson. You can call me John."

Patrick reciprocated the handshake with an easy smile that made John's heart melt, "Patrick Melrose. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, John."


	3. Reflection

While John wished he could stay at the hospital to keep an eye on Patrick, he couldn't deny himself a full rest and a real shower any longer. But once he had trudged through the city and stepped up to the threshold of 221 Baker Street, he stopped in his tracks and stared at the shiny lettering on the door. He had been so caught up in his banter with Mr. Melrose, that he had honestly forgotten the empty flat that awaited him.

He had been home a couple times over the last two days, but only to stumble tiredly through the door and collapse on the couch, immediately falling into an exhausted nap for a few hours before rising, hurriedly changing, and making his way back to the hospital.

But here he stood, staring at his front door, almost afraid to open it. He knew the second he did, the horrible reality of his current state would come flooding back to him.

He passed through the door quickly, keeping his breath even as he made his way up the stairs and into the flat. It was a little easier than he had anticipated, maybe being around someone to have a back and forth with every so often was helping his mental state. John decided, after a short glance outside at the diminishing light, that getting ready for bed might be a good option at this point.

He made his way to the bathroom, doing his best not to really let his gaze linger too long on any one place, not Sherlock's chair, not the bullet holes and smiley face on the wall, nothing of significance. He felt a bit numb as he undressed and climbed into the shower, turning the water on full blast and letting it rain over his body, which he was just realizing was thoroughly worn out from days of work. He lets out a loud sigh and lays his head against the cold siding of the shower.

It had been months. He was closing in on a year of not having Sherlock around, which seemed both completely accurate and nearly impossible. 

Life had seemed like it wouldn't ever fully start moving again with the detective gone, but here he was. Still living. Still going. He supposed he should feel accomplished. While he hadn't really moved on from Sherlock, he was at least making new friends and even keeping up with old ones. He'd had an entire 15 minute conversation with Molly just the other day.

John wanted to believe Patrick was another step in the right direction. He wasn't exactly past the implications of being attracted to another man, but he was taking it little by little. Patrick was painfully attractive, and while John knew the vices of drug addiction and didn't particularly find that aspect appealing, there had also been plenty about Sherlock that John had looked past and accepted to love him.

As he turned the water off and rinsed himself off, padding slowly to his pajamas draped across the sink, he looked at himself in the mirror, eyes a bit gaunt and barely staying open. He grimaced a bit and wrinkled his nose. It was a miracle Patrick had talked to him at all looking as shit as he did. He supposed there was nothing he could do for a first impression and decided to do better tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

His sleep that night was the most fulfilling he'd had since the funeral and he woke up feeling better than he had in months. He stretched and picked out his clothes. There wasn't a whole lot that made his doctor's coat look more appealing, but having better clothes on underneath did give him a confidence boost. He stared in the mirror of the bathroom and mused with his hair for a moment before giving himself a smile.

"Handsome."

The voice, soft and silky against his ear, nearly made him jump out of his skin. He twisted around, expecting someone to be there but finding empty space. 

He chalked it up to nerves. That's what it had to be. Nerves and longing. He missed Sherlock's voice so terribly he must be hearing it in his head. 

He took a deep breath to steady himself, grabbed his coat and made for the hospital.

Much to John's surprise, and relief, though he'd never admit that outloud, the police took everything Patrick said at face value and immediately begin a search for the group of thugs he had described.

It had actually been Lestrade who came to talk to him. The detective inspector and a few other officers came to take his statement and the man stopped John on his way out.

Greg talked to him for a few minutes about the case, assuring John they would catch the fiends responsible. He managed to keep professional for the majority of the conversation, but the doctor knew what was coming when the man glanced around the now empty hallway and cleared his throat, "So, uh... how are you holding up?"

John blinked at him, hoping to feign confusion before nodding, "Oh, eh.. Yea, Greg. I'm fine, fine. Ya know? Hanging in there." 

Greg gave him a smile back and clapped him roughly on the shoulder, "'At's good to hear, mate. I was a bit worried there for a while." He awkwardly looked down at his feet, scraping the floor with the bottom of his shoe. John was immediately relieved Lestrade was as bad at talking about his emotions as the doctor himself was, "So... that, uhh.. that Patrick bloke. A real charmer, yea?"

John shook his head and smiled, "Ta. He sure is something. Gotten real acquainted with him over the past couple days. And hoping to help him through his rough time."

Greg nodded a bit more solemnly now and made a noise in the back of his throat, "I got my best guys, on this, John. We'll find the people responsible."

They said their goodbyes and Lestrade slapped him on the back affectionately before taking his leave and joining his men at the front.

John made his way into Patrick's room, the man was sitting straight up in bed and John gave him a look accompanied by a sharp shake of his head. "I can't believe they just... believe you." He said with a little disbelief.

Patrick shook his head and made a face of fake shock, "Doctor, I have suffered mental and physical anguish. How dare you bring my integrity into question."

John stopped himself from rolling his eyes before they could even catch a glimpse of the ceiling, "Integrity. Right. Were you wanting to discuss intergrity before or after you took a cocktail of  
drugs so strong it almost killed you."

The man shrugged with a smile and laid back against his pillows, "Say what you will, John. I got what I wanted."

He shook his head and the darker haired man and raised a brow, "You really wanted to end up in hospital?"

Patrick scrunched his face up and pointedly looked away from him, "Admittedly, that was not part of the plan." He glanced around the room again, looking as though he hadn't been staying in it for a full two days already, "If I'm going to be here, how reputable is this hospital anyway?"

John furrowed his brows and squinted at him a bit, glancing around with him, "Ah... well um. We happen to be the best hospital in the area. We try to upkeep that reputation. Everyone comes to St. Bart's."

The man made a humming noise and whispered under his breath, his voice seeming to drop a couple octaves as if he were mimicking someone else's speech, "Only the best... or go without..." he spoke slowly and the atmospheric shift in the room almost made John bodily shudder. The room was quiet and the doctor heard the same unmistakable voice in his ear whisper softly.

"Multiple personalities."

It had been so clear, his body seized up, just like before. But he refused to look around. He knew he would find nothing but an empty wall behind him, just like he had earlier this morning. And Patrick had not seemed to hear it.

Desperate to change the subject, he cleared his throat loudly and gave Patrick a smile, "There is one detail I do need to discuss with you, though. And I have a feeling you won't like it."

Patrick gave him a weary look and very slowly muttered a soft, "What?"

John sat himself down in the chair beside the other man's bed and the doctor couldn't help but notice how he shifted uncomfortably at the closeness, "Your story may be keeping you out of jail, but let me tell you," he chuckled a little, "everyone in this hospital is wanting you to get better. They feel so bad about this, they all want to see you progress and get your life back."

The doctor knew Patrick could tell where this train of conversation was going by the clear look of disgust on his face and his mantra of "no no no" that was slowly increasing in volume and force.

"We have a few different programs we can admit you to, and I'm sure a few of the nurses you have charmed phone numbers out of will be happy to tell you which ones they think are best." He smiled a bit when Patrick brought his hands up to push the heels into his eyes sockets with a loud groan.

"REHAB, JOHN." He exclaimed loudly, wrenching his hands away from his eyes to stare hard at him, "They want me to go to REHAB?"

John gave him a shrug and stood from his chair to walk to the end of his bed, "Well it's just so sad, yea? The poor man never stood a chance against those muggers." He shakes his head and clicks his tongue in mock pity, "Only thing to do would be to help him get clean, right?"

Patrick frowned deeply at him and spoke under his breath, "You're enjoying this."

"I am not, no. Not at all." John couldn't help the smile on his face but shook his head quickly before making eye contact with him again. "I just wanted to help you."

The dark haired man straightened his back and looked a bit more like the posh gentleman he sounds like, "I do not need your help. I am the pinnacle of self control and decency. If I wanted to get clean, I could do it myself."

The doctor sighed softly, standing from his chair to move up against the side of his bed and making note of the slight change in posture, the same one he seemed to make every time John got a little too close, but a bit more advanced with the almost complete lack of space between them, "Look Patrick. I'm going to level with you. Until we find you fit enough for release, which by your shaking hands and your sudden irritablity, isn't going to be for awhile, you're a bit stuck. Withdrawals are hard, and from what I've seen," He motioned to the clipboard at the foot of his bed, "going through these ones by yourself very likely might kill you." He furrowed his brows deeply at him.

Patrick gazed at him for a moment before glancing at his own hands, "I wouldn't be having this issue if I had not even been brought here." 

"No, you'd be dead in your hotel room." John shot back quickly. He moved away from his patient to collect his thoughts. He had started to get too invested. He knew from a professional standpoint, even continuing his visits at all was crossing a line. But the willingness to keep him alive could be justified. Patrick was his patient, of course he didn't want him to die.

But John knew that's not what this was about, and immediately felt bad about trying to project his unsaid feelings onto this man he had only met three days ago. He was spiraling a little, he realized, gripping and reaching for something honestly unattainable and came to the resolve that he was stronger than that.

He moved to the desk in the corner of the room and with a deep breath, ripped a corner from one of his throw-away documents and wrote his phone number down on it. If he was to believe that this was a sign from whatever power that he needed to hold onto this man for dear life, fate was going to have to show him that.

John walked back over to where Patrick lay in bed and held up the scrap of paper, "I can't tell you what to do, Patrick. Once you're cleared for release, we honestly can't make you do anything. But, if you do decide having help will be good for you, you can give me a call." He smiled at him but for one tense moment, he thought Patrick wouldn't take the number from him.

The darker haired man stared for a long long time before taking the loose leaf from him and looking down at it. He was quiet for what felt like an eternity to John, but looked back up at him with a raised brow, "Are you... giving me your number, doctor?"

John bristled subconciously. Patrick knew this was strange, knew it was unprofessional in every sense of the word. But John shrugged it off and gave him another smile, "I've got other patients to see, I don't know when I'll be back to check on you. And honestly, if you can't trust your doctor in your time of need, who can you trust?"

Patrick, who John could see was beginning to get itchy, didn't look up from the paper, "I don't trust anyone, doctor."

He had been packing his things and was almost out the door when John heard his soft reply. He stopped at the door frame and glanced back at him, "Well... maybe you should." The doctor didn't wait for a reply, leaving the room and feeling a simultaneously tightening and releasing in his chest. It was all up to fate now, whether or not they would see each other again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly sorry if there are any mistakes I didn't catch?? My bf is my beta reader and he's difficult to keep still. 
> 
> We'll get to the meat of this very soooon!


	4. This isn't a Date

Fate, John had decided on the fourth day of him constantly checking his phone for new messages or missed calls, was a bit of a bastard.

Perhaps he had misread the signs, had hoped for too much and reached too far for something that had just been a fluke. 

He began to think it was a bit ridiculous anyway. After his best friend dies, another man strikingly similar in appearance shows up in the process of dying and needs John to save his life. It was honestly too convenient.

All his convincing of such, however, was thrust out the window when he received a text on his lunch break, sitting outside a little cafe near Bart' s because he, his therapist told him, needed to be outside more often. He lurched for his phone a little more forcefully than he normally would have and steeled himself to read the text.

It was Patrick, thankfully, stating that he had a group therapy session and he was not excited about it, but if John was there it might make the whole experience a little less untolerable.

John noted that the man going at all was a huge accomplishment and smiled a bit. 

He could think of little else besides their meeting for the rest of the day, but the fast-paced enviornment of the A&E made for a quick work day and before he knew it, he was crawling into bed and staring at the ceiling. He wanted to plan for the next day, decide what stance he would take with Patrick, whether it be strictly professional or more on the friendly side. But as his eyes grew heavy and he realized sleep was coming and going, he let it take him and realized it would probably be better to just wing it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day, before Patrick's appointment, was exceptionally uneventful. John found himself struggling to get through his morning and was half tempted to ask Patrick if he wanted to meet up now, even though it was a little after noon and his appointment wasn't until 5.

He thankfully had enough self control to go about with breakfast and relaxing a little in his flat before getting ready to go. He honestly had no idea why he was so excited anyway, it was a group therapy appointment for drug addicts, it wasn't exactly a date. But John supposed he would take what he could get and settled for being excited to see Patrick again.

They decided to meet up a bit before the therapy session begun, and as John approached the conference center they'd be sitting in moments from now, his eyes lit up at the sight of Patrick, already waiting for him, even earlier than he had said to meet.

He kicked up his pace a bit more excitedly than he'd like to admit and smiled at Patrick as he moved closer, "You're early."

Patrick, who had been examining the cuff of his shirt, turned his attention to John with a soft smile, "Yes, well, punctuality is important to me."

John couldn't help himself in noticing just how well-dressed Patrick. He wore a nice, pressed suit and his hair was a bit more slicked back. He was a stark difference to the man who has been wheeled in on a stretcher. He was absolutely and utterly too handsome, overdressed for the occasion was a bit of an understatement.

"So what changed your mind?" The thought was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Patrick looked down at him for a moment, seemingly processing, and gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders, "Occasionally, " he said slowly, "in the endless twists and turns of life, I'll get a notion. Sometimes it's to try a new kind of cocaine. Other times, I want to try every kind of alcohol I can get my hands on. And every once in a great while, I tell myself I'm going to quit drugs altogether."

John blinked at him and glanced away to look at the ground, "So why..."

The taller man cut him off before he could continue his thought, "It has not stick as of yet." He gave him a look that said that train of conversation was decidedly over.

They walked in together and sat in two plastic chairs close together, the others empty and arranged in a neat circle for the time being while they waited for other patients to show up. The woman conducting the session was wide set with long dark hair, kinky curled. John had read the pamphlet for this particular brand of therapy and she apparently focused a lot of her healing around socialization. Which is why she encouraged people coming in to bring someone along to sit in with them.

She greeted them warmly and shook Patrick's hand with a smile, "You must be Patrick Melrose. It's a pleasure to meet you, I'm so glad you decided to attend."

"Yes well," he spoke, John noticed, with a sort of twinkle in his eye as he observed the lady before him, "let's just say someone convinced me I should."

John introduced himself to her as well, but was taken aback by Patrick's comment. He didn't want to go ahead and assume the other man was talking about him, regardless of how pointedly it seemed that way. John didn't really think anyone else had made a lasting impression on Patrick, but he himself hadn't said or done anything profound that would be considered "convincing" him.

So the short man sat quietly as the other people began to file in, frowning a bit in thought. He was still mulling over this when the lady, Dr. Clark, she told them to call her, called the meeting to order and began by having everyone in the circle of chairs introduce themselves.

It was going about the same as John had thought it would. He would be the first to admit he wasn't the most patient person in the world and why anyone actually did drugs was beyond him, but he had sat in on AA meetings with Harry in the past and chalked this up to be about the same. 

Patrick would answer questions asked of him, albeit evasively, but John could tell by the shake in his hands and the tap of his foot that he was beginning to get antsy. He had heard the hospital was administering medication to him to help his withdrawls, but John knew it was only a matter of time before he saw them hit the man full force.

"Let's discuss hobbies." Dr. Clark said as she smiled and folded her hands across her lap.

"You mean, besides drugs." Patrick twitched his head to look directly at her and John fought the urge the elbow him in an attempt to stop this before it began.

She looked a bit startled by the response, Patrick had done his best to be nothing but polite to her during the whole ordeal, but John could see he was reaching the end of his rope, "We don't need to see drugs as a hobby, Patrick. There are other activities we can choose to spend our time doing. Like cooking or painting."

A girl to their left, particularly young, John vaguely remembers her name being Janice, and a bit too thin, piped up at this with a hesitant smile, "Oh yes! I have picked up painting in the time since I've quit."

Dr. Clark smiled at her brilliantly, "Ah that's lovely. Tell us, what do you like to paint?"

John felt Patrick shift around impatiently in the seat beside him as Janice began to speak, "I've done all sorts of paintings. Landscapes, still lifes, before I uh... did this... I wanted to go to school for it. My mother always told me I had a fine eye for color and the arts."

The short man heard Patrick mumble, "Oh Christ." beside him and John caught his eye and gave him a look he hoped told him to settle down.

Janice continued, which John hoped meant she hadn't heard his companion, "I particularly like painting people though. We're all so different. And I feel like my past dealing with... this... has helped me reach a full potential in art. I can use getting over the abuse as my own personal muse."

Patrick snorted this time, so loudly the room jerked it attention fully to him as he spoke, "Well god, just look at you. A regular tortured Picasso." He waved his plastic cup of water around as if it were a glass of scotch, "Shame your paintings won't be worth anything until after you're dead."

Dr. Clark immediately frowned across the circle at him and spoke up before he could continue, "Mr. Melrose, this is a place of healing and understanding. If you are going to be here, I would appreciate it if you behaved yourself."

"But that's so boring, isn't? Drawing trees and mixing paints." John was a bit surprised at how the man looked as though he was slowly going mad in his seat. "Let's turn the focus onto what I find fun. I find experiences that are impossible to replicate fun. And they are so unique, aren't they? Each haggered breath and skipped heart beat it's always so new and exhilarating no matter how many times you've woken up in an airport toilet." 

The other patients in the room shifted uncomfortably and Dr. Clark narrowed her eyes a bit in defense. The situation was quickly going south and John muttered an "easy now" to Patrick in another attempt to soothe him. It did not, however, work.

"You say there are other things but with this, it's just... Well there's nothing quite like it, is there? It's such a... rush. You've got no worries when your high on heroin and cocaine and whatever else you can get your hands on to try. Every session is a new, eye-opening experience, because it's never the same, is it, no no. Every mix will do something different and that's what we live for, yea? Something different. Something to liven up our bleak existence on this great ball of dirt." He was almost shouting by the end of it, standing in front of his chair and John up on his feet at his side. Patrick glanced slowly around the room and cleared his throat before nodding several times and crossing to the doctor, who flinched a bit upon his sudden movement but recovered well and took his hand when he offered for another shake, "You've done wonders, Dr. Clark, thank you for this experience." He turned away from her then to look directly at John and walk past him and back out the double doors into the conference hall. John booked it after him, long legs against his shorts ones always apparently going to be a problem in his life.

He finally caught up to Patrick outside, he was standing against a street lamp, cigarette in a shaking hand and staring up at the sky. It had been unusually clear when they had walked in but now seemed to be swirling with the dark clouds of a storm. Patrick shook his head and took a long drag of his cigarette, speaking in a slightly higher pitched, almost nagging voice, "Oh Patrick, what have you done?"

The situation was delicate, and John really wasn't the best at dealing with such things. He shook his head rapidly at Patrick and frowned, "What happened back there?"

"Well John, you were there, you saw." Patrick mirrored his frown back to him and focused back on his cigarette, doing his best to calm his shaking hands.

"I thought you wanted to get better. I thought you were serious about quitting." 

Patrick fixed him with a look that told John, regardless of how much they liked each other, was beginning to overstep some boundaries in their newfound relationship, "I told you. It never lasts. I never get "better". I always go right back to where I started." 

The doctor watched him shake and glare off into the crowd of passing people. They stood together, letting the silence between them simmer down the tension. They were both fully aware the only issue here was Patrick's withdrawals and John chewed his lip, attempting to come up with something that would help.

John was a good doctor, sure, but he was not exactly good at psychology. Just as the silence was turning a bit awkward, Patrick had begun scratching at his arms, the deep baritone whispered into his ear once again, "He needs something else to focus on."

He didn't really know when he had subconsciously decided to take all of the Sherlock in his head's advice, but he supposed he could wrestle with the mental implications of that when the man beside him wasn't almost shaking himself apart, "Want to get a drink?"

Patrick immediately dropped the remains of his cigarette, crushing it into the pavement beneath his expensive shoes, and hissed out "Christ" loudly before nodding to him, "I would love nothing more."

John hailed them a cab and they crammed in the back together, sitting close as he gave the cabbie directions to a bar close to Baker Street. He had gone there with Lestrade on occasion before, but he was a bit embarrassed to admit he frequented it now more often than ever. John would never let himself get so dependent on alcohol that he couldn't function without, but after the events of the past year, the appeal of numbing his body and quieting his inner thoughts had been much too tantalizing.

But as he waited for Patrick to follow him out of the cab and walked into the bar with the taller man at his side, the thoughts from previous visits weren't even on his mind. 

They sat together at a booth toward the back across from each other, and when their waitress arrived, Patrick surprised him by ordering the most expensive alcohol on the menu. John settled for a beer on tap and when she was gone, he stared down at his hands, trying desperately to start the conversation but unsure where to even begin

Luckily, he didn't have to, as Patrick spoke up from the other side of the table, picking at the coaster a little, "I suppose I've made a complete arse of myself to you, haven't I?"

John gave him a smile in return and furrowed his brows, "Well I wouldn't say "complete"." He raised his brows when Patrick smiled back at him and gave him a short laugh in response, "Ya know that was supposed to do you some good."

Patrick knitted his brows down over his eyes and shook his head vigorously, "Oh John, don't do this. As I'm sure you're aware, I am a highly specialized case. Group therapy of that caliber is going to do nothing to crack the years of addiction and mental instability in me."

"Then... why even go?" John was so thoroughly confused by the man before him that he was beginning to wonder exactly how out of his depth he was. The waitress returned with their drinks, John's in a tall glass while Patrick had some kind of wine.

The taller man examined his drink for a while, swirling it in its glass and smelling at it like a professional wine taster and John's mouth tugged down at the corners. They were at a rather ordinary bar, not a winery on a villa. As he was about to say as much, Patrick cut him off, "I'll tell you why I went when I'm a bit more inebriated and my inhibitions have been securely chucked out the window." He then proceeded to take a long drink and hum around the mouthful of liquid.

It became apparent after Patrick's fourth glass that was planning on getting quite hammered and while John was happy his shaking had calmed and he was much less on edge, a nagging at the back of his mind told him this wasn't exactly a good alternative. But the other man was so intensely captivated by John and his stories of past adventures that he decided to feel bad about allowing this to happen later.

"The bastard tried to drug me, Patrick. I thought he was honest to god being nice to me, but it was all part of the case. I understand what he was doing but that was such bullshit." He didn't know when he'd brought up Sherlock, but there it was.

Patrick wrinkled his nose but kept a wide smile in good fun, "What a dreadful man he must have been."

"Oh the absolute worst." John laughed and smirked, his eyes shining brightly, "He had no idea how to be a person, let alone communicate with other people, and saying his methods were unorthodox is the understatement of the bloody century." He realized that talking about this brought a warmer sensation to his chest than any alcohol could manage and set his gaze firmly on Patrick, "Ah, hell no. I want to talk about you. You've let me babble on for the better part of any hour. And I never babble." He smiled widely at him.

Patrick shrugged his shoulders and took a long sip of his drink. He was shifting around restlessly in way that told John once he started talking, it was likely he wouldn't stop and Patrick himself wasn't sure how he felt about it, "Oh but how could I be so rude as to interrupt. You very clearly have such fascinating stories to tell." He pauses to take yet another drink and then uses the glass to gesture back at John. "What was it though?" He pauses. "Before we got off on the clearly sore subject of... Shamrock, did you say you were a soldier? Army doctor?"

John waved him off with his head, "Yea, I did. I was stationed in Afghanistan for three years. Honestly some of the best years of my life, being in the military." He saw Patrick shift and his face twitch. Obviously something about that didn't really sit right with him and he supposed after being with Sherlock for so long he had forgotten some people had a sensitivity to the subject. He backpedaled, "Of course it mostly came from feeling needed, ya know? I was a doctor then same as now and saving lives was a grand use of my time there."

This seemed to assuage Patrick a bit and he settled back into his seat and relaxed his face, "Ah. Quite the hero you are, John Watson." He raised his glass to him and gave the waitress a wider smile as she brought him another drink. He was seeming to become more interested in her as the night went on, and John was losing count of the drinks, but aside from that he was only the most polite to her and John thanked Christ he wasn't trying to make any passes at her.

He shook his head rapidly at him and rolled his eyes a bit in response, "I wouldn't say that. I could have done more, but an injury got me sent home." He takes a sip of his own drink, paying close attention so he doesn't begin to teeter toward the intoxicated end of sobriety spectrum.

He immediately had Patrick's full attention, and the man leaned in closer, "A battle wound. How tragically poetic that the medic be injured. What happened?"

John frowned a little, but shook his head and shrugged his scarred limb, "Shot through the shoulder. It was... rough for awhile but I managed." He glanced down into his glass, "I healed up and they found me unfit to continue serving and shipped me home."

Patrick sighed at this and leaned back away from him, "You're sad about it, but honestly you probably would have just died. And you wouldn't be here. And you wouldn't have met me." He shrugged his shoulders exaggerately, as John cackled across from, "So be sad, all you want. I'm not." He took another long sip of his drink and gave John a smirk over the rim.

The doctor gathered himself up, smile still firmly in place and warmth back in his chest from drink or good company, he wasn't sure, "Stop, yea? I want to talk about you and you've brought me completely off track. You're awful."

"Well first things," Patrick was beginning to speak with a bit of a slur, "Alcohol is no replacement for drugs. I'll tell you that right now." He swished what remained in his glass back and forth and sighed, "John, to tell the truth, the majority of my life has BEEN about drugs. It's the most exciting aspect of my existence. I've been doing heroin since I was ahhh..." He squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment in thought and John furrowed his brows deeply, "15, I believe."

The other man blinked rapidly at him, "Christ. Thats... early."

Patrick nodded in response and slouched back in his chair, "It was good, though. I liked it best. Better than anything. I didn't have to think or choose to be alive or dead if I was shooting up heroin." He stared down into his glass for a long time before looking back up at John, eyes a bit cloudy, "You know, I went today because of you."

John's brows almost met his hairline as he blinked in surprise at the confession and subject change, "Pardon me?"

The taller man waved a hand at him and couldn't seem to make eye contact again, "You visiting me. And talking to me. It was... genuine. Some of the most genuine contact I've ever had in my entire life. You're a good man, a good person, an-" he hiccups a bit and shakes his head before continuing, "I thought if anyone could help me with this, it was going to be you, John."

He raised his eyes back up to him and they stared at each other for a long time before the heat resonating from John's cheeks became too much and he called down their waitress for the check. A lot of fumbling insued as Patrick insisted he pay and John would be ashamed later that he had not fought the action harder. 

John realized Patrick must not get drunk very often. Heroin and drugs don't have the same effect as an alcohol induced stupor but it seemed apparent Patrick was going to take what he could get. He helped the taller man walk outside, supporting most of his weight and glancing around the empty street in search of a cab. He turned back to Patrick and got his attention by tapping at his shoulder, "I never got the address of your hotel back at the hospital. Where are you staying?"

Patrick squinted at him in the harsh light of a street lamp, thinking. He looked around at the barren streets, dark aside from the isolated instances of light like the one they stood in. He slowly shook his head and laughed a bit as he realized something, "I have no idea."

John huffed a bit at him and shook his head back, "No, come on, Patrick. You've got to remember, the hotel name, the street, a land mark, anything."

Patrick responded with a quick shrug that just about threw him off balance and he laughed at himself, "I don't, John. I really don't."

The doctor steadied him and ran a hand quickly through his hair. He saw headlights round the street corner ahead of them and threw his arm up when he realized it was a taxi. The car stopped on the street beside them and John was immensely glad he was still fairly sober as he helped Patrick worm his way into the backseat. This man had been very elegant thus fair, but alcohol seemed to turn him into a long bit of gangly limbs with jelly bones.

Once settled, the cabbie looked back at John in the rearview, "Where to?"

The shorter man blinked at him, glanced over at Patrick who was almost asleep against the window, and sighed softly, "221 Baker Street, please."

The man nodded and they were off. The drive home waa quiet and John spent a good deal of time looking between his hands and Patrick pressed up against the cab door. He was beginning to realize just how deep he was in. If this man had truly started drug abuse in his teens, he would have to help undo possibly over a decade of damage. And that didn't even include the apparent mental trauma that had pushed him to such lengths that John didn't even fully understand yet. 

He was spiraling in his thoughts when they pulled up to Baker Street. He glanced out the window at his home, then back to Patrick who had curled up against the back seat and was evidently in quite the sleep. He watched him for a moment before stepping out of the cab. He went ahead and paid the cabbie for the ride before gently waking Patrick enough for him to walk. As he pulled the man up the front stairs, both of them laughing as John had to all but carry him when Patrick's foot caught on the first step, John thought this was ok.

As he helped Patrick maneuver around the mess in the front room that he was still in the process of cleaning up, smiling at the man as they wobbled over piles of books and other things, he thought he could do this.

If helping the man with his past, keeping him safe, taking care of him, was going to grant him a happiness like this, John decided he would do it as many times as he would have to.

He laid Patrick on the couch, just under the smiley face with bullet holes, and fixed him up a couple blankets and pillow, helping him shift around until he all but passed out, face pressed into the cloth of the sofa and curled on his side.

John took a moment watch him sleep, soft smile of his face, before rubbing at his eyes, his own full body tiredness finally catching up to him. He trudged up the stairs and collapsed onto his own bed this time, the piece of furniture hadn't seen much use in a while and he realized in a sleepily intrusive thought that it was the first time in a while he wasn't compelled to sleep in Sherlock's bed.

He wondered over the implications of this for a solid three seconds before sleep took him softly and it was no longer his concern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! I'm making some story decisions that I'm super indecisive about!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy! And thank you so much for all the comments, they really push me to write more!


	5. Real Friends Don't Exist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK SO SUPER SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG OMG. My work schedule is awful and doesn't leave me a lot of time to write. So the updates won't be on a schedule of any kind but I am STILL writing this!! <3

John woke the next morning from what felt like a 300 year rest. He popped and stretched and rubbed at his face before remembering he had had a guest last night.

He rose from bed a bit too quickly, stumbling as the blood rushed mercilessly to his head, and wobbled his way down the stairs to the sitting room. He was more than a little disappointed to find it empty, the blankets he had draped over Patrick the previous night folded neatly on the couch cushions. He frowned a bit and was about to turn and sulk through making breakfast when he caught a glimpse of the paper sitting on top of the pillow. He made his way across the room and picked it up quickly to look it over.

It was a note left by Patrick, written in an elegant script that seemed only fitting for the posh man. 

"Dear John,

I am terribly sorry for my actions of the previous night. I am sure I have made a fool of myself and if you never wish to contact me again, I would completely understand.

If, I have not, in fact, left you with an utter disdain for me and my existence, then I would like to tell you that I indeed had fun last night and would very much like to spend time with you again. If you'll have me.

Patrick"

He reread the note three times and a wide smile spread across his face. Patrick wanted to go out again. John had a new friend and it absolutely set his heart ablaze with happiness.

He immediately grabbed for his phone and opened his texts to Patrick.

"I got your note. We should hang out again soon."

He really hoped he wasn't jumping the gun. John knew what people said about texting back too quickly and seeming desperate, but since he had come back from war, he really hadn't paid a whole lot of mind to normal social convention.

With the text sent, he sat for a moment on the couch and waited. There was no immediate response and John felt a slight bubble of aniexty begin to rise in his chest. He shoved it down and decided he should probably get ready for work.

When he was out the door and on his way to the hospital, he felt his phone vibrate and immediately pulled it out. 

"Thank God you're not sick of me yet."

John smiled to himself, of course he wasn't. He was used to people who were in need and honestly, feeling needed at all seemed to be exactly what he was missing in this current point in his life.

So he texted him back, asked what he had planned for the day. Patrick's responses were a bit vague for a man who is always ready to over explain himself, which gave John a worrying sour feeling in his stomach. But he knew this was going to be a rocky road if he wished to follow it, so he rolled with the punches then changed the subject. He wanted Patrick to quit cold turkey but he knew that was almost impossible for a man who had spent the majority of his life depending on the feeling he got from heroin.

He should probably recommend him another therapist, since group therapy was obviously not going to work out. Patrick wasn't wrong about being a special case. John briefly entertained the thought of seeing if his own therapist would take him on. Even when he didn't completely agree with her methodology, she'd done him more good than he's done himself in the past few years.

He would have loved to continue his conversation with Patrick throughout his workday, but when he got to the hospital and the doctor he was taking over for came up to him, exceptionally thankful to be free of the establishment and leaving him with a waiting room full of people, he knew that probably wasn't going to happen.

~~~~~~~

A couple days of inconsistent texting routines and busy mornings and evenings in the A&E later, John finally caught a break. 

The influx of sick had slowed to a trickle and for the first time in what seemed like ages, he felt like he was able to take a proper lunch break. 

He chewed his lip and thought exceptionally hard about asking Patrick to go out with him. It was such short notice, but John took the chance and picked up his phone from his desk drawer to text him anyway.

Patrick responded much quicker than John truly thought he would with a polite, "I'm not busy at all. Did you have something in mind?" And John smiled widely.

He told Patrick to meet him at St. Bart's and the man said he'd be there soon. He pocketed his phone and made sure his desk was in a presentable enough order before shedding his doctor's coat to hang by the door and head out toward the front. He stopped at a window once out the door and gave himself a glance over in the reflection. His appearance wasn't terrible but some deep part of him wished he was dressed a little better for his first meeting with Patrick in so many days.

He mussed around with his hair for a moment before catching a glimpse of someone behind him in the reflection that he instantly recognized. "Molly!" He twisted around with a smile, grabbing her attention as she moved from room to room.

She stopped immediately at the sound his voice, he could tell she was surprised to hear him so chipper after months of quiet solitude, "Oh John!" She made he way to him, flipping her pony tail over her shoulder and adjusting the files and papers in her arms, "Its good to see you! We work in the same building and I swear I never get to talk to you." His friend furrowed her brows softly at him, "How are you?"

"Better." John replied, and he smiled a little when he felt how much he actually meant it, "Work's been keeping me plenty busy and I've been more social than ever."

Molly took a moment to blink at him but smiled softly at him, taking his meaning, "That's great! I've been worried about you. You need more friends in your life, John, you're such a good person."

John smiled back at her with a shrug, "Eh well. You say that..." He caught a bit of motion down the hall and stopped, "Ah! I'm actually going out to lunch with someone today. Here he comes, you'll love him."

Molly turned to follow his gaze and John looked back to see her expression morph into one of utter shock. She looked as though she was watching something terrible unfold, silent as if any word might absolutely shatter the world around them and the tension was suddenly palpable. Before he could inquire about the change in behavior, Patrick strode up to them with an easy smile, "John, I've found you. I honestly hadn't thought it would be that easy, this place is a bit of a maze outside of the patient rooms." He turned his head to look Molly up and down for a moment before turning up the charm with a bit of simper, "Oh hello."

Molly shook her head a bit, stunned, and muttered halfway through a "Sherlo-" before John cut in quickly to derail her train of thought.

"This is Patrick Melrose. We.... met here actually, but you know. Not really under any normal circumstances." John gave a bit of a chuckle and while Patrick held out his hand for her to take, she took it, albeit very slowly and unsure.

"Patrick... Melrose.. Of course..." she spoke with an absolute air of disbelief that confused John beyond words. He could tell it put Patrick off a bit, the other man shooting the shorter one a look before tilting his head to the side, his gaze resting on Molly once again.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, is there a problem?" He blinked rapidly at her then his brows shot up, "Are you ill? You look a bit pale."

Molly shook her head rapidly, seeming to come fully and clumsily back to herself as she shuffled the documents around in her hands and cleared her throat, "No! No, I'm eh.. fine. Thank you. I just..." she turned back to John with a nervous smile, "I really need to go, John. It was nice to see you again." After the words were out, she gave Patrick a smile and a polite nid and then she was gone, leaving the doctor and his company to stand in the wake of her awkward exit.

He turned to look at Patrick and gave a short shrug of his shoulders, "Molly's a bit... odd, but generally not that odd. She must be in a hurry. Or she'd forgotten she was in a hurry." He chuckled a bit to break some of the sudden tension and was pleased when Patrick smiled at him again and shook his head.

"She seemed... nice." He spoke with soft humor in his voice and wrinkled his nose, "Perhaps we'll meet again and be able to talk. You're right, she seemed to be on a time table."

John was grateful his friend was so understanding and turned back toward the front of the building, motioning for Patrick to follow after him, "C'mon, yea? I'm starving." 

They walked together toward the double doors of the lobby that led out into the street. John couldn't quite shake how strange Molly had acted. He knew from day one that Patrick did coincidentally look a striking amount like Sherlock, but after being friends with him and spending time together, he realized the two couldn't be more different. Of course, there were similarities, he inwardly twitched at his unsettling and newfound attraction to drug addicts, but overall they couldn't have been more seperate in personality. And aside from that, she had looked shocked to see Patrick, John had in the beginning as well, but something about the way she acted didn't sit right with him in the slightest.

He was so caught up in his own thoughts as they trotted side by side on the street, that it was until he glanced around and saw Patrick's mouth moving that he realized the taller man had been talking, "Oh god, sorry, what was that? Bit distracted."

Patrick stopped midsentence to fix him with a slight frown, but let it pass and started over, "I was just saying, I'll pay for your lunch today. It might help make up for what an absolute... animal I was the other day." 

John started to wave him off but stopped short. Money didn't seem to mean a whole lot to Patrick, but this did sound like a step in the right direction. If he started answering for his actions, the lessons he learned from doing so might stick with him a bit better, "Ya know what? Sounds great. I'll let you pick the restaurant at least, before I order the most expensive thing on the menu."

Patrick gave him a genuine chuckle in return and shook his head, "You say that, but perhaps I'll take you somewhere that's a bit over your head." 

The shorter of the two really wasn't sure what he was implying, but allowed Patrick to take the lead regardless. They weaved through the streets of London together, chatting easily as Patrick pioneered their way to whatever establishment he seemed to have in mind. Even after their short break from each other, talking to Patrick was simple as breathing air to John. There were no awkward silences, and even the quiet that would occasionally settle between the two seemed to be entirely comfortable.

When they had been walking for long enough that John was about to make sure Patrick knew his lunch break was only a fininte about of time, they stopped in front of a rather ritzy looking resturant. The exterior was exceptionally clean and minimalistic, an area with nice looking tables and chairs surround by a wrought iron fence to the right of the front for patio dining. A sign in the window read, in beautiful cursive, that the place was called "The Trillion". John had never seen it before, although one glance around told him they were standing in a higher class section of London and that would absolutely explain why.

"Have you ever been here? No. Actually I'm fairly sure you haven't, have you?" Patrick said a bit snarkily, "I trust you still plan to order the most expensive thing available?"

John smirked up at him as Patrick took the lead through the gilded door and the shorter snorted a bit, "If I can pronounce it anyway."

The inside was just as stark as the outside, though the lack of decandency made it seem all the more grand. The atmosphere, created by the dimmed lighting and the abstract art that decorated the walls and most flat surfaces, made John feel drastically out of place and he shifted around on his feet as they waited for the host to seat them. He was close to telling Patrick he was hilariously underdressed for this place when he spotted a couple deeper in looking as though they were also on a lunch break. It also appeared that reservations weren't a thing for this place. John sighed in relief inwardly and Patrick gave him a cheeky smile. John realized the man had done this to him on purpose, and was fully enjoying the sight of John having a miniature panic attack, "Oh sod off."

Patrick laughed softly in response and took the lead in asking for a table. On the way through, John caught glimpses of other people in casual clothing and felt a bit better with each step. Once they were finally seated, close to the back, their table lit softly by an overhead light, and the host had left them, John fixed him with a playful look and shook his head, "I almost left you here."

Patrick pressed a hand to his chest and blinked his eyes rapidly in false innocence, "Why ever would you do that?"

The doctor shook his head derisively and their waiter approached, introducing himself and taking their drink orders before leaving them to talk amongst themselves.

John opened the menu, squinting slightly at the curled font and reading through the selection, "Have you ever been here before?"

Patrick seemed to be preoccupied with the menu in front of him but nodded slowly, "I have once... Before my incident in the hospital, I had been visiting for... business." He adjusted his position in his seat, and it struck John as awkward. Patrick didn't seem the type to get nervous, so the doctor couldn't help but wonder what brought on the sudden behavior. "I actually came here a day prior to our meeting and had something I quite liked..."

After uttering a small "ah", the shorter man returned his gaze to the menu. The waiter returned with their drinks and took their order. From the menu, John had gathered that the restaurant was French based. Using the descriptions provided, he went for something called Hachis Parmentier. He figured he couldn't go wrong with a meat and potatoes dish, but Patrick surprised him, however, by ordering the honest-to-god specialized Filet Mignon. John shot him a look as the waiter left and he raised his hands with a sly smile.

"John, I told you I was paying. You don't need to worry." The man chuckled, "You should be aware, I am very much acclimated to the finer things in life."

"I couldn't tell." John replied, voice laced with sarcasm. He shakes his head and takes a sip of his drink before raising a brow at him, "What was it you said back at the hospital? "Only the best or go without?"" 

The air settled a bit strangely around them as Patrick glanced across the table at him and cleared his throat a bit uncomfortably, "Yes. That is what I said." Then suddenly, like nothing had even transpired, he was fine and animatedly picking his silverware, "Why live life at all if you're not going to indulge in the luxuries it has to offer?"

John gave him a quick, "Ah yes." A smile tugging at the edge of his lips. They chitchatted back and forth until their food arrived.

Taking his first bite of meat, Patrick chewed slow and shut his eyes. John watched him mull over the flavor in his mouth and hum softly to himself. He blinked his eyes open and glanced down at his food and back to John, "I think this might actually be better than the last time I had it."

His eyebrows shot up and John tilted his head to the side in curiosity, "Really? I wonder why so. Different chef maybe?"

John received a small smile from his companion as he put his fork back down for another bite and answered softly, "Perhaps it's just the good company."

The answer was unexpected and John could feel himself smile a bit in repsonse. The idea that Patrick enjoyed his presence just as much as he did the other man's had him absolutely glowing through the comfortable silence that now rested between them as they ate.

When he was close to finished with his meal, John raised his head back up and raised his brows at Patrick, "If it's not too personal... do you mind me asking what you were doing here? You were obviously just visiting. What "business" brought you here?"

Patrick cleared his throat in an attempt to seem casual, "Not too personal at all, I suppose, if the two of us are going to continue to recreate, I can tell you about these things." He looked up to blink at John, "I was here to see an old... flame, I suppose you could say. We dated a bit ago and I came here in order to reignite it."

John raised his brows and gave him a smirk, "Oh yea? Well good on ya. How is it going with her?" He was happy for Patrick, but something in his chest twinged uncomfortably and he decided, as he was doing with a lot of things recently, to explore it later.

The taller man clicked his tongue in response and he set down his fork, looking back at John from across the table, brows raised, "Well, as you know, I almost died of a drug overdose, so she wanted rid of me."

Face dropping a bit, John furrowed his brows sympathetically, "Ah, Patrick... I'm sorry to hear that. Did you tell her you were trying to get clean?"

Patrick blinked at him slowly over his drink, fixing him with a bit of an odd look, before setting it down. He was quiet for a significant amount of time before answering, "Of course. She still wanted nothing to do with me."

The doctor shook his head and frowned deeply at him, "If that's the case, she's not worth your time anyway."

There was another pause in which Patrick blinked rapidly this time in surprise, then lifted his gaze to stare at John. He shook his head slowly, "Perhaps she is better for it."

"No," John continued. Patrick could tell this was stirring him up a bit, "You don't give up on someone that quickly, especially with a situation like this. Support is very important and if she isn't willing to help then sod her."

Smirking the slightest bit, Patrick laid a hand on his chest is mock exasperation, "John, this language." He chuckled softly to himself and then gave him more genuine, almost sad smile, "I've honestly never had anyone who stuck around through the rough patches. But that's life isn't it? I can really only rely on myself."

"No it isn't." John blurted quickly, causing Patrick reel back a bit and raise a brow at him, "I'm sorry, but that's just not the way life is meant to be. I was in the army and you know, I had a rough go at it. I got shot, got sick, and you know what helped me really keep it together? The people around me. Support helped me." He shook his head slowly and furrowed his brows, "You deserve support, Patrick. You don't have to be alone, yea?" He offered him a smile.

There was a long period of silence in which Patrick stared at him and blinked. John was worried he had gone too far, said too much too soon. When an eternity had passed between them, Patrick cleared his throat and glanced down at his watch, "I suppose you should get back to work, John."

His heart ached sadly in his chest and he glanced down at the table, feeling sheepish for the first time since the lunch started. He nodded quickly and rose from his seat. But as he grabbed for his coat and tried to force his suddenly lax mouth to say he didn't mind to pay for his food, Patrick moved quickly from his seat to John's side, effectively stopping him in his tracks. "John." He spoke, then frowned, seemingly searching for his words. Finally, he nodded to himself and continued, "I appreciate... that. I really do. I'm not close to many people on this planet, but I think, John Watson... I can call you my friend." His brows quirked up and for the first time in their relationship, unprompted, Patrick laid a hand gently on John's shoulder, "And I thank you for that."

John beamed so hard up at the other man it was a wonder his face didn't break. Patrick gave him a smile back and took back his hand, messing around in his wallet, "But you and I are not, in fact, men who discuss our feelings in depth so I beg of you, leave before I say something truly embarrassing."

The shorter man gave him a soft laugh and bid him goodbye before heading out the front of the dim restaurant. The sun seemed to shine brighter and the sky an unimaginable shade of blue for mid day in London, and John knew no matter what happened for the rest of his day, nothing could put a damper on his mood.

**Author's Note:**

> I've not seen a single person out here doing anything with Patrick/John and honestly I think it could be so cool??? First chapter is a little short and mostly contains world building, but the next ones should be longer!


End file.
